Tag Archives: fun stuff!

There were plenty of ups and downs in 2013. The most down was probably the idiocy that was my brief time in “fashion” and the fact that I now know that someone as hideous as The Beast exists in this world.

But there were more ups than downs, in the end. For starters, these guys:

Looking all cute on Christmas…

And giving the hugs…

And wearing ties!

Then there was the joy of watching my husband cry in public, AGAIN:

And he touched it too!!!

Lucky Banana even got to go to opening night.

The year 2013 was also the comeback of LASERS:

And of course, Rob Ford.

Thank you, Canada!

But the thing that I really like to show off about good old 2013, was the difference from beginning to end. On Jan. 1, 2013, I came home after a trip to Ireland. After that trip, at 5’4″ tall, I was officially 193 pounds, and apparently, no one told me that my clothes did not fit.

On Dec. 31, 2013, I am 150 pounds.

See what I mean about the clothes? They couldn’t tell me that didn’t fit? Thanks, sisterhood, you jerks.

I think my ability to take a selfie has also improved, if you ask me. I’m pretty totes adorbs. I think that sweater is actually too big now.

You know, according to my BMI, I am still overweight. But I’d like to give a good old fashioned FU to the BMI. I’m not so fatty these days. Let’s try to keep it that way for 2014 — the year I turn 40!

I certainly don’t know Maria Kang, right? So basically, her story was, she posted this picture on her Facebook page. And I guess she posted it quite some time ago. But for some “mysterious” reason, it suddenly was gaining attention.

Sidebar – does anyone really think it was mysterious? Really? She was just all, how did THAT happen? Really? She didn’t spread it around at all, pushing for some publicity? For her website? And her product? Really? Okay then…

Maria Kang. She has her own website. Never heard of her before. Have you? I mean, before THIS? Probably not. And had this photo not “mysteriously” gained some sort of attention that prompted people respond to her public Facebook page, which prompted her to write kind of a bitchy response, which prompted her to get her very own trend on the old Google, which prompted her to do the morning talk show circuit, which prompted her to get MORE hits on her website, well, you get the point.

So anyway, Maria here said that she wasn’t being rude when she wrote “What’s your excuse?” She wasn’t shaming people for not looking like her. She was just nicely suggesting, while mostly naked, that maybe people try their best to get in a workout most days! That’s all! I mean, sure, ten, 15 years from now, that photo will be stroke material for her sons’ friends. But she’s just trying to SUPPORT and INSPIRE the rest of us. YOU. This is SUPPORT for YOU. Her near NUDITY is all for YOU!

I say good for her. I think it’s a positive message. I think we could ALL learn a lesson this way.

If only pediatric oncologists would post photos of themselves tending to dying children with the graphic “What’s your excuse?” overhead, Maria would be a pediatric oncologist.

If only Rhodes Scholars would post photos of themselves with their books and stuff with the graphic “What’s your excuse?” overhead, Maria would be a Rhodes Scholar.

If only Tom Brady would put “What’s your excuse?” on a poster, I’m sure Maria would be an insufferable douchebag (come to think of it, she may have a Tom Brady poster).

Well, I’m inspired.

I’ve created some posters of my own, with the hopes of paying it forward:

I hope I return the favor that Maria Kang has so graciously bestowed upon me, and inspire her right back!

But it also means my favorite time of year is about to come to one sharp startling cold musty conclusion (save for what will likely be a glorious three-day, 90-degree spit of time at some point in October, when all the Facebookers of the world will whine with epic sadness and post photos of their in-dash thermometers reading 91 and text saying “WTF MOTHER NATURE” followed weeks later with a -21 and “WTF MOTHER NATURE” because no one is happy and Facebook makes us think that you and only you know how to read AND feel the temperature).

I don’t hate fall. I just love summer.

Seriously. How do you not love a season that you spend like this? Or, in my younger days, like this:

Could I BE any cuter? The cigarette is a nice touch. My friend Mannino calls fall “fat guy weather,” and I’ll give him that. Because I’ll also give him that no one is really comfortable with that drip of sweat rolling down your back, clearly headed for your crack and beyond, and you are powerless to stop it.

But I do get positively ragey over the oozy glee of the fall lovers. People who say things like “ooohhh I just LUURRVEEE my new COAT! I *TOTES LOVE* being able to put on my LEATHER BOOTS and WOOL SWEATERS!”

Who the hell loves a coat and boots and sweaters? Paraphiliacs, that’s who. Just call it a fetish and be done with it, don’t blame it on autumn, you freaks.

That’s right, I put a link there. You clicked it, didn’t you.

Freak.

Anyway, summer has come to a hot, sweaty, swift conclusion, and everyone is pleased with themselves for the time being, even though they’ll be complaining about the cold and snow soon enough.

I did have a productive summer. I hung out with a few friends:

We totes fit in the frame.

I passed my new expertise of fine fashion on to James:

There was Lucky Banana’s visit to the Cup.

And of course, time with the boys.

This summer, I learned several things.

I learned that I can be in a room in several naked women, all who have fake boobs, and I can put my hands all over these women, and in the end, it was not even the slightest bit exciting.

I learned that there is a lot of ugly behind the pretty. I cannot stress that hard enough.

I learned that women who are 6 feet tall, even when they are slender, are still 200 pounds, because they are 6 feet tall, and a 200 pound woman will crush the hell out of your toe when she steps on it.

I learned that Atlanta is in fierce competition with Baton Rouge for the actual portal to hell. But not to worry, I will make a kick ass zombie:

I learned that giving me a stimulant will in fact make me drop 23 pounds (just say YES!).

I learned that models are my besties.

I learned that stitches between brothers are a competitive sport.

I learned that I have to keep the a/c on, because my sons have allergies simply too bad to cope with the great outdoors.

I learned that I am a legit fashion blogger.

I learned that I can still make new friends.

Alight, already. I’m ready for September. Technically, we still have a few more weeks of summer. So sorry, fat guys, let’s have a few more sweaty days. You can celebrate your fetish momentarily!

Me – “But I have to spend money to look this good for you!” *waves arms in sexy motion around bod*

Jim – “Tough! Pay your way or get out!”

Me – “You are a killer of dreams.”

And just like that, my days of being a small town newspaper reporter were over.

Okay, it wasn’t quite like that, but I mean, it was kind of close. Let’s just say the times, they are a-changing. And in a move that I can only describe as good for the soul, the mind, the creative spirit, and the pocketbook, we decided to shop around to see if there were any other opportunities out there for me.

The assumption was that it would take months and months. No problem, I thought, I’ll send out some of my fancy resumes that I made with the fancy resume-maker that I found on the google, and then I’ll sit back and enjoy the summer. Hooray!

*ring*

Hello? Yes, this is Marney… An interview? Sure.

Y’all, I GOT A JOB. Like, lightning fast. I mean, it’s not that unusual seeing as I am a human bucket of awesome, but still. It was kind of cool.

So what does the writer who thinks that Sears is high class and TJ Maxx is legitimately swanky (dude, I bought a dress there with SEQUINS, hello!!) do when she leaves her writing job?

She gets a job as a writer. In high end fashion. Of course.

No really.

Technically, my title is “Social Media Manager” which means that I am in charge of all sorts of stuff that gets out to the public. You know, info and stuff. But I think what I really am, still, is a writer. It’s my job to write all about this kinda cool fashion and these fairly spectacular dresses that are all part of this line. They are like, cool.

See, my writing skills are coming in handy already!

Anyway, when you get a job in a place that creates fashion, you feel compelled to dress reasonably nice, even though they are clearly not turning to YOU for fashion advice seeing as they’ve been doing this a whole lot longer and oh yeah, there’s that whole Sears and TJ Maxx thing you got going on, as previously mentioned.

So this means I have become a girl who can not walk out of the house without getting approval from others on what goes on my bod. Via the selfie.

A “selfie” is hip cool youngfolk talk for “self portrait with your cell phone.” There are several types of selfies:

The demure “look how sweet I am, my hand is just naturally resting on my lip, showing off my wildly big ring and come hither expression, I wonder if anyone will ever know I had to take this photo 100 times to get it right for my Facebook profile photo” selfie.

The “hey maybe if I drop syrup on myself no one will notice how incredibly freaking skinny I am” selfie.

The “idiot duck face” selfie.

The “Amanda Bynes has lost her friggin’ mind” selfie.

The “watch me go from buff hottie to total douchebag simply by virtue of taking this photo” selfie.

And most important, the “check out what I am wearing” selfie. As you can see, it’s not just for the ladies who want to know if these flowered pants make their butt pop out (they do). It’s also for the gents who care about their self styling, like this fool and his bitchin’ 3/4 length tee.

It’s the last one here that I have officially fallen prey to. Apparently, I need to know how I look, and a glimpse at myself is just not enough.

This really happened:

If you are color blind, you cannot even tell that I am wearing something different everyday.

Apparently what has really changed isn’t my job. It’s my ability to leave the house without approval.

A few weeks ago I went out for an 8 mile run. I was ill prepared and not thinking I was going to make it. But, turns out, I did GREAT. I wouldn’t so much call it a run, or even a jog, but maybe a trot. A jaunt, if you will. I was kicking it. Man, was I in a good mood when I got back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a runner. I am not a small woman. In fact, the closer I get to 40, the wider my butt gets. And my waist. And my butt. But still, this is something I do. And I ain’t lying, yo. Check me out:

My medal from my half marathon last fall.

My first Mudathlon.

My second Mudathlon.

Me rocking some underboob sweat after a 10-mile.

Me looking cute as Jim sucks in and Laura inexplicably pretends her banana is a phone.

Look, here’s me running the in the outfield after a Joliet Slammers game in a skirt!

SEE. I AM AN ATHLETE.

In a few days, I am running once again. Jim and are will be joining a group of friends to run a half marathon in Indianapolis. I won’t lie, my knee is kinda tweaked and I am afraid that I that I will slow all my friends down. But I have had a couple of really good long runs and I feel pretty good about it.

But back to that day when I finished my 8 mile run. I got home from this run right about the time that Hank was getting home from school, and I was all *high five* and *fist bump* and *slap my butt* only that part I did myself because gross, I’m not going to have my kid slap my big old butt.

When I came home, however, I checked my phone and saw a text about the Boston Marathon. “What kind of asshole bombs a marathon?” my sister wrote.

So I snapped on the TV. Sure enough, some asshole bombed the Boston Marathon.

I am not afraid to run the half marathon in Indianapolis. But honestly, I’m kind of pissed. Everyone knows that you have to work really hard to get in shape. But sometimes, even the fittest of the fit, even they can’t run.

It’s true. Running isn’t just for people who are perfectly physically fit. I think I am proof of that. I’ve got a big butt and I cannot lie. I am a good 40+ pounds overweight. But I am a runner.

It’s this sport that is about much more than your footstrike and speed. I hit a 12-minute mile and I feel like Speedy Gonzalez only less animated and racist. It’s a sport that is far more about your ability to endure than your ability to hurry it up. You don’t need to be have a specialized skill, you just need momentum and stamina.

Nobody runs for the fame of it. I mean, name a famous marathoner. I am sure they exist, but if it’s not track and field at the Olympics (and seriously, who watches the “field” portion? Javelin is ZERO fun when no one is really at risk of being impaled), then no one is watching. And even then it’s just for the chance to yell USA USA and hope that this run will get you a free Big Mac.

Runners are all a little bit like Forrest Gump. We’re not going anywhere, we just felt like running.

Who the hell bombs those people?

I mean, it’s not like there is a group of athletes out there who deserve that more. But runners only run to run. Sure, the super top guys are sponsored and what not. But for the rest of them — the ones who are finishing 26.2 at the 4-hour mark — it’s just for their spiffy medal and a technical t-shirt that rides up funny and a photo that they have to pay $30 to get a copy of. It’s just to say, hey, I ran a marathon!

Runners are pretty selfless athletes. They see a goal, and it’s really far away, and they run to it. That’s all.

I think a lot of the runners this weekend will be doing it “in memory” of the victims. But not me, not so much. I am not running to honor them as victims. I am running to honor them as runners, and families of runners, and friends of runners. I am running to honor myself as a runner, and my own friends. I am running because I can. Because I am a runner.

Peanut-butter stuffed chocolate eggs and boxes of sugar and bizzaro land “cream” filled eggs and colorful hard boiled eggs delivered fresh to my house in a cheap weave basket by a magical bunny who breaks in while we sleep.

I’m not gonna lie, I don’t remember what it was. Something about what my hopes and dreams were as a kid? Or something? I don’t know, it was super deep and hence, not at all like Jim. Sorry honey.

My first response to him was, “have you been on Pinterest?”

He claims not to know what that is, but I don’t believe him. See, Pinterest is code for “super awesome time suck.” It’s this random site where you post links to all the things you like, or want, or need, or fancy, or wish to make, or covet, or, inexplicably, random pictures of Kid Rock. Seriously, there are Pinterest pages that people start up to honor the man who is so skeezy you need a shot of penicillin after looking at him. Gross yo. It’s just weird.

But other than that, Pinterest is super randomly fun. You know all the thoughts and ideas and stuff you really like but keep to yourself because no one cares? Yeah, now it’s public, and it’s on Pinterest.

And in the very *pinteresting* boards about relationships and relationship advice and being a better relationshipper, there is a trend lately on how to get to know your partner better. At the heart of a lot of these things is essentially a game of 20 questions. Here’s what to ask your guy (or gal, dudes can pinterest their lives too) when you are bored or in a long car ride or to strike up the conversation or just to get to know each other better.

They generally are accompanied by a photo of a super happy couple, like so:

So I started clicking away thinking, hell, that actually sounds fun. It would be nice to give Jim the third degree in a pleasant way for a change.

But the more I looked at the various items for how to get to the root of your partner’s soul so you REALLY know what they are thinking, the more disappointed I was. The questions were LAME. Examples:

What is your favorite Olympic event?

What? I don’t give a shit. Or, more importantly, if it is not curling, you are dead to me.

Would you rather be blind or deaf?

Wow. Loaded question there. One way or another I’m insulting someone. No way am I falling into that trap.

Who is your favorite superhero?

Again… what? Thor. Or you are again dead to me.

What’s your most embarrassing moment?

Well, nothing will put the pedal to the metal in the divorce bus quicker than revealing how embarrassing it was when you got busted for public nudity and that’s the real reason you can’t go back to New Orleans.

These questions are crap! Crap I tell you.

So I have developed my own. Ten questions to get to the heart of your relationship.

Sit with the one you love, or the one you hope to love, or the one you were stalking but shhhhhhhh let’s not discuss it we’re on a date now, and ask these gems.

Then you REALLY get to know someone.

1 – Why do you hate America?

This should always be first on any list.

2 – Do they sell men’s clothes where you bought that shirt?

Obvi – say “women’s” if your date is a chick. Better yet, say chick. That will win her over.

3 – How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

If them hem and haw, leave immediately. The answers in order are Bill, Karl, Sean.

8 – Dawson or Pacey?

The answer is Dawson. It’s HIS creek.

9 – What’s your most embarrassing moment?

I changed my mind about this one, I want to know if he’s as fun as I am, or as lame as, well, I expect he is.

10 – What is the name of your make-believe band?

This is far more important than you think. Anyone who does not have a make-believe band, or for that matter who has never practiced their speech to the academy or picked out their Olympic ice skating music is lacking heart, creativity and a soul. PS, if they say the name of their band is Mentally Spanked, you are on a date with me, Kayla or Nancy.